


Persimmon Ox Wishes to See

by Wildgoosery



Category: Humans Are Space Orcs (Meme), Original Work, Undisclosed Fandom
Genre: F/F, Lesbians in Space, brief mention of suicidal thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-09
Updated: 2020-12-09
Packaged: 2021-03-10 07:41:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27967001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wildgoosery/pseuds/Wildgoosery
Summary: Humans are hearty, cheerful creatures with a reputation for thriving in chaos. They are warm and charming, or so it’s said. And when I first met Persmimmon Ox, I was young and curious and far from home.
Relationships: Original Female Character/Original Female Character
Comments: 29
Kudos: 78
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	Persimmon Ox Wishes to See

**Author's Note:**

  * For [remrose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/remrose/gifts).



I serve in the Corps for Deep Galactic Infrastructure because my number was drawn, and because I am a citizen before all other things. I understand there are tasks which must be completed despite the dangers inherent, tasks which require sentience and skill beyond robotic capability. I understand that some risks are too great to be Balanced, that fairness is not always possible, and that some of us, inevitably, will draw a poorer lot. I am not some cowardly defector, and so I serve without complaint, but I know the consequences. All of us know. All of our families went into mourning when we began our service.

Romances among the Marked are so common as to be an entire genre of serials. This is partly a practical concern — what civilian would choose a partner with such terrible odds for a long and healthy life? And looking back, this same thinking is likely why I took a chance on a human to begin with. I’d heard the same stories as anyone else, but as the saying goes, sometimes you have to Balance your own odds. Humans are hearty, cheerful creatures with a reputation for thriving in chaos. They are warm and charming, or so it’s said. I was young and curious and far from home. I knew I would soon be lonely.

Persimmon Ox was assigned to my team as co-pilot, cook, and astrophysical monitor. This was to be her first “long-haul,” as she told her fellow Marked aboard the shuttle to our vehicle. Also her first time outside the Orion Arm, her first cryo stasis longer than ten cycles, her first assignment for in-situ plasma engineering, on and on in her heavily accented Auditory Standard. 

Most of our crewmates listened to this chatter in bewildered silence, but as a hatchling of asteroid nomads I was used to all sorts. I made the small noises of listening which I’d heard set humans at ease, and kept my frill at a courteous height.

“I can’t believe I landed this gig right out of apprenticeship,” Persimmon was saying. She chuckled and shook her head. “Some pretty wild luck, huh?”

“With our bodies, the future is made,” I said, polite and not unfriendly.

Persimmon leaned toward me across the shuttle’s narrow aisle. “It’s F’nel, right?”

“Yes?”

“Why do people keep saying that to me?” she asked. I had watched enough human media to understand she was frowning.

My frill trembled reflexively in mild surprise, and I hoped she didn’t take it as rude. “It’s a courtesy,” I said.

“I think maybe something’s getting lost in the translation?”

My creche had warned me that humans were often frank about matters one would normally avoid in respectful company. I glanced at our crewmates sitting nearby, all of whom were clearly listening to this instead of reading their orientation packets. “It’s an abbreviated acknowledgement of our shared circumstances,” I said.

Persimmon’s jaw worked back and forth. I now understand this to be the face she makes when deciding whether what she’s about to say is offensive, but at the time I found it baffling. “Pretty sure I’m missing a key implication here,” she said at last.

I winced inwardly; likely so did everyone else on the shuttle, save Persimmon. “We Marked have been chosen to perform a dangerous and undesirable task in service of the greater galactic good,” I said with careful patience. “We are harmed in order to ensure the continuance of society.” 

Permission laughed, which left me wondering if her Standard was poorer than it seemed to be. But she didn’t ask any more questions. And at the time, I was too anxiously proper to interrogate bizarre human reactions.

Two hundred and thirty-two cycles have turned since that first shuttle ride, seven or so of them conscious. Persimmon continues to confound me, although I now regard her eccentricities with a lover’s wry affection. 

At this moment, our ship is out on the fringe of the Carina Arm, servicing a relativistic jet turbine which powers a string of robotic mining operations. The neutron star which drives it has been tweaked by a rotational glitch, and when the turbine’s AI failed to compensate, we were the closest at hand — a mere two cycles away, while the next-nearest crew of Marked could not have arrived in fewer than six.

Direct maintenance will be necessary. The radiation environment is exceptionally poor. 

I am making what I can of my time.

We are seated around the common room table, tablets of blueprints and performance reports lying amidst the remains of a meal. Our discussion of tomorrow’s plans completed, we are tidying up the detritus of the meeting while speaking informally amongst ourselves. As is usual, Persimmon’s chatter fills most of the silence.

“I looked it up,” she’s saying now as she wipes crumbs from the table, “and you know, parts of this turbine complex are damn near a thousand cycles old?”

Bezzt’t sniffs irritably. “The turbine was commissioned three hundred cycles ago.”

“Sure, but they built it on the ruins of an old Precursor plant,” Persimmon says, undaunted. “Honestly, I can’t wait for a closer look, the sims from the interior aren’t that good. Fabrication tech was so different before the second wave, I bet I’ll be able to tell by eye which components pre-date the reno. F’nel says there’s a different sheen to the patina in slanted light.”

Bezzt’t skewers me with a sideways glance, one that very clearly asks why I’m encouraging her.

“We’ll draw our lots in the morning,” Bezzt’t says with brittle politeness. “Perhaps you’ll be able to observe the patina shortly, if such is fate’s plan for you.”

“Oh I’ll _definitely_ be taking a look.”

“Have you added clairvoyance to your list of specialties?”

Persimmon laughs. “I volunteered!”

This shocks Bezzt’t into silence. They lower their gaze to the pile of documents before them, and maintain this performance of preoccupation as Persimmon gathers up her screen and earbuds, walks over to kiss the top of my head, and then strolls out into the corridor. She’s whistling to herself, and both Bezzt’t and I sit and listen until her cheerful sounds fade from distance and the bulkheads between us.

“She _volunteered_ ,” Bezzt’t says, buzzing with incredulity. 

“She did,” I agree. I am sympathetic to Bezzt’t’s reaction — I would likely share it, had I not spent so much time in Persimmon’s intimate company, and had we not already discussed this matter at some length in the early morning dark of our bunk.

“Did she see the risk report?”

“Of course.”

“Did she _read_ it?”

“I expect so.”

“You’re not alarmed by this?”

“Why would I be?”

“Because it’s self-destructive behavior,” Bezzt’t snaps, “and she is your _partner._ ”

I shrug. “It’s how she’s always been,” I say. And probably I should leave it at that — leave Bezzt’t to her confusion and not offer any more reply than is required. But we Marked are very close, of course. We are each other’s family, our gene relatives gone to dust many cycles ago. And the chance of losing my innermost circle — my sweet strange creature, my Persimmon Ox — is greater now than it ever has been. And I am, perhaps, overdue to share the weight of certain confidences.

“She builds the future of her own accord,” I say quietly, hoping that Bezzt’t will understand without my having to say the whole hard truth aloud.

I can tell from the set of her frill that she does.

“How did admissions not declare her medically unfit?” Bezzt’t asks. “How was this permitted?”

“There’s no prohibition against Marking oneself.”

“Because only a _human_ would be suicidally foolish enough to do so!” Bezzt’t frill shakes with agitation, now, a low ominous rattle. 

“You know that Persimmon is no fool,” I snap. “She’s certainly reshuffled your own bad hand more than once.”

But Bezzt’t is only half-listening. “This is why there was such dissent regarding that species’ application to the Collective,” she mutters. “They’re neurologically incapable of comprehending risk. They’re _terrible_ with probability.”

“She understands the risk,” I say. “She has chosen to volunteer despite it.”

“Why would any sane individual Unbalance their own life?” Bezzt’t asks, clearly expending quite some effort to keep their voice down. 

I understand Bezzt’t reaction. I felt the same myself, once. I sometimes still agree, in my darker moments of doubt. 

“She wished to see it for herself,” I say.

“See _what_?”

“Everything,” I say, soft with fondness. “Persimmon wishes to see everything she can.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much to remrose for enabling me to have Feelings About Space Lesbians, and thank you to C for the very quick and helpful beta! MERRY YULETIDE!! <3


End file.
